Littlething
by chrissie0707
Summary: Pre-series vignette. Dean's following John around the tiny, cramped apartment, grumpy and annoyed, stir-crazy from cabin fever and the lingering smother of late summer heat laying in the air as thick and heavy as a wool blanket.


_Author Note:_ _This was a cut scene from "Collateral Damage" that ended up being too far off the timeline to become part of the story. I have a really hard time giving up on anything, so I've held onto the scene for awhile, going back to it from time to time and trying to work enough into to it to justify it as a stand-alone moment. In the end, I think I'm just offering here a take on a small moment of early Winchester family dynamics and the signs that the wheels were already spinning._

* * *

 _Littlething_

Dean's following John around the tiny, cramped apartment, grumpy and annoyed, stir-crazy from cabin fever and the lingering smother of late summer heat laying in the air as thick and heavy as a wool blanket. The early mornings and long nights of the season would do better to help them all forget the air conditioner's been out for three days if it didn't feel so much like they're slowly suffocating, a ripe-smelling family of three marinating in their own sweat without the mercy of the A/C kicking.

He sidesteps the trail of weaponry his father is leaving along the narrow hallway, swipes at an uncomfortable trail of perspiration tickling at his temple, brushes it into the hair over his ear. "Dad."

"Grab that machete for me, will you, kiddo?"

Dean dutifully retrieves the long blade from where it lays along the stretch of gray carpet, holds it out like a plea. "Dad."

John pauses for just a moment, sighs. "Sam," he calls into the other room. "Crack a window or two, why don't you." Every window in the place is already open and they both know it. He grasps the hilt of the blade, takes it as gently as one would expect a man to pull a recently sharpened twelve-inch sword from the sweaty hand of his fourteen-year-old son.

Dean rolls his eyes and continues down the hallway after his father, stomping in a juvenile manner betraying the fact he already knows nothing he says now will change John's mind. But it doesn't keep him from trying. Confidence comes in growth spurts, just like inches. "Come on, Dad. Let me come with you."

"Not this time, Dean."

"You always say that, but I can help you. I can shoot well enough."

"I know you can." John smiles as he pulls the zipper of his faded, frayed weapons bag. He sighs and puts his hands on his hips. "What about school?" When this gets him another eye roll he jerks his head in Sam's direction, loosing a fine spray of sweat from his brow. "And what about Sammy, huh? You just wanna leave him here alone?"

Suddenly under the spotlight, Sam slouches in the kitchen chair he's dragged next to the oscillating fan and covers his face with an American History textbook, just old enough to know he wants very much not to be any part of this discussion but not quite old enough to fully grasp why.

Dean stamps his foot against the thin carpet, irritated with the way his father always pulls the Sammy card from up his sleeve. He hasn't yet found the trump card, and Sam is never willing to help. "He's not a baby. Neither am I."

Despite the high heat of the day, John drops his soft leather coat over one arm and slings the strap of the bag over his shoulder. Dean sags with the knowledge his father is travelling far enough to need the coat. Days, he'll be gone. Not hours.

John gives Sam's head a gentle pat as he passes, swallows audibly as he wipes sweat onto his jeans. "Maybe next time, kid."

"You always say that," Dean grumbles again, unable to hide his disdain for the use of the word 'kid.' He leans against the wall next to the door, hands shoved into the pockets of his too-tight jeans.

John opens the door, glancing back at his sons with an affectionate smile. "Keep hydrated, and no candy for dinner. Have Sammy in bed at a decent hour." He then focuses a stern gaze in the direction of his eldest. "That goes for you, too, Dean."

Dean stares at the grimy carpet, grumbles a wordless response that's swallowed by the heat trapped in the apartment.

"What was that?"

"Yes, sir," Dean says louder, raising his eyes to his father.

"I'll be back by Thursday morning. Not even long enough to miss me." It's what he always says, something to reassure them. Sometimes he's back by Thursday morning, sometimes it's a week. Sometimes it's longer. Sometimes Dean has to steal food so Sammy has lunch at school. Sometimes Sammy has to skip school and they have to call Uncle Bobby or Pastor Jim.

Dean plants himself there next to the door until his ears lose the comforting sound of the car's growl, then he pulls away from the plaster, leaving a sweaty smear where his back was, and stomps over to the couch to flop onto it.

He flips through all of the fuzzy channels on the TV and when he fails to find anything that holds his attention, tosses the remote aside and glares at Sam, crossing his arms. He grinds his teeth in frustration and watches as his brother prints neatly in a spiral notebook. "What're you doing?"

"Homework."

"We'll be gone in a couple of weeks. Why even bother?" Dean's own mandatory schoolbooks are as good as abandoned, collecting dust in his locker since their first day in town. He'd told his homeroom teacher not to bother, told her that she and her books could go to Hell for all he cared. Dad wasn't happy after that particular phone call.

"I like school."

Dean snorts, angry with his father, at the thought of being cooped up in this room for the next couple of days and looking to take it out on someone, nothing personal against his ten-year-old brother. "Nobody likes school."

"I do."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you're a shrimpy kiss-ass geek and you probably think you're going to college, too."

"I am." Without eye contact but just as defiantly and matter-of-factly as he says anything these days, and it fuels Dean's misplaced hostility. Besides, he's sick of Sammy acting like he knows everything, and like Dean's not in charge when Dad's gone.

"Yeah, right," Dean spits, wanting venom in his words. "Dad's not gonna let you go anywhere."

Sammy bites his lip and stubbornly refuses to meet Dean's eyes. Sometimes he has a snappy comeback, spouting off words and phrases Dean's taught him that would make a sailor blush. Lately, though, he's been biting his tongue, refusing to fall into these traps and it's really starting to piss Dean off.

Dean crosses his arms and flops back heavily against the cushions. "We'll see."


End file.
